


fall, fall, fall

by mojokid



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 04:34:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15722064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mojokid/pseuds/mojokid
Summary: A post-series story in which Steve Sisco tries to kill Dan, basically.





	fall, fall, fall

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on livejournal a million years ago, dusted off and lightly edited. :)

Everyone would remember the night Steve Sisco tried to kill Dan Rydell at a charity fundraiser. Dan, in particular, would remember it. And if he ever forgot, there would be an untidy, ragged-edged white scar across the palm of his hand – a defensive wound, he would tell people. From when Steve Sisco tried to kill me. You probably read about it.

*

Casey had decided to get drunk before the driver picked him up. He finished a bottle of champagne that had been standing in his fridge for two days, ever since he and Dan had taken it upon themselves to steal as many of the complimentary bottles of champagne from the Quo Vadimus takeover party as they could. Which, in retrospect, had been childish, especially since they were both taking significant salary jumps under the new ownership and could probably afford their own champagne. 

When he climbed into the back of the limo, Dan shrank from him, as far into the opposite seat as he could go. 

‘Wow, Casey,’ he said. ‘I think they actually have alcohol _at_ these events. It’s not your high-school prom.’

‘What?’ said Casey, awkwardly pulling the door shut behind him. The limo eased into the evening traffic. Casey’s suit was already creased and he felt pretty good. Drunk but pretty good.

‘You didn’t need to get wasted before you left,’ Dan said. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later.’

‘I had the champagne we stole,’ Casey said. ‘It wanted someone to drink it.’ He was clear-headed enough to hear the edges of his words blurring into one another. He hoped there weren’t going to be too many reporters at this thing. 

‘So your lunch date either went great, and you’re celebrating, or it went bad, and you’re numbing the pain,’ Dan said.

‘It went bad,’ Casey said. ‘Very bad.’

‘She wasn’t nice?’

‘She was nice. She was nice. She was very nice.’

‘You weren’t nice?’

‘I was boring.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘The Blackhawks’ ’98-‘99 season.’

Dan winced. ‘That wasn’t even, like, a particularly eventful season for them, was it?’

Casey shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I have numbed the pain. My pain is undetectable. I am ready to raise money for rehabilitating sports people.’

‘It’s sports rehabilitation. It’s a different thing.’

‘Oh,’ said Casey. ‘What is that?’

Dan frowned and rubbed an eyebrow. His hair looked like it hadn’t been combed, Casey noticed, and he hadn’t shaved today. Maybe it was something his publicist was making him try. ‘You know. Rehabilitation through sports. You lose a leg, they make you play soccer, something like that. I don’t know.’

‘That sounds cruel.’

‘Not as bad as making them _watch_ soccer, I suppose.’

‘Okay,’ said Casey. They were coming up on Broadway; Casey could see throngs of people and bright lights through the tinted windows. He had no idea where the event was. He got in limos, he went places. ‘Would you rather lose a leg, or do nothing but soccer coverage for the rest of our careers?’

‘Lose a leg,’ Dan said. ‘I’ve got another one.’

_Our careers_. Like they were permanently stuck together. _Our careers_ sounded nicer than _my career_. 

‘Then again,’ said Dan. ‘Losing a leg would really kill my chances of ever getting drafted as a wide-receiver.’

‘Right,’ said Casey. ‘Well, you’ve got to think about that.’

Dan looked at this watch, sighed.

‘Do you know who’s going to be there?’ said Casey.

‘What?’

‘At this thing.’

‘No. I don’t know. Who cares? The usual people. Dana’ll be there.’

‘And we’ll be there.’

‘That’s right,’ said Dan. ‘We’ll be there.’

*

Dan hadn’t had a panic attack in a while. Maybe three months. Abby had told him he was doing really well, whatever that meant, but then he’d got worked up and little crazy for a few days, because he thought maybe she was going to say that he was cured and that he didn’t need therapy anymore, and he would have to agree with her and stop going, because the whole time he’d been pretending that he _didn’t_ need therapy and that he was just doing it to indulge some weird need on her part, a performance they both understood but one Dan didn’t think he was ready to give up. So he’d have to stop going to therapy, but he didn’t want to, he was nowhere near ready and the thought of giving it up made him feel so sick he couldn’t eat for two days.

He had told Abby all this at their next session, and she had listened patiently and then said, ‘Don’t worry, Dan. Sounds like there’s no danger of you being cured any time soon.’

Which was her trying to be funny, and also being self-evidently right, which was always annoying, but Dan felt better, and actually he _had_ been doing pretty good recently. A few weeks ago he had had a mature and serious conversation over coffee with Rebecca Wells about why restarting their relationship maybe wasn’t a good idea right now, and Dan had been equipped with a whole list of reasons which all sounded eminently sensible, although none of them seemed to be the real reason, which was some dark obscure fact that Dan couldn’t access or articulate, really, he just knew that it wasn’t _right_ , it wasn’t right the way it had been before. And they had both left the coffee house feeling sad but okay, and Dan had gone to therapy in the afternoon and told Abby all about it, and she had said ‘Hmm’ a lot, and generally all the parts of Dan’s life seemed manageable right now. And he had almost managed to forget about Casey telling Dan to go to California without him, and the way Casey’s voice had sounded when he said it. 

But still, when Dan walked into the fundraiser, which was in some ballroom with chandeliers and photographers and a wall of laughter and clinking glasses and a crowd of sports and media kind of people, he felt a familiar rush of adrenaline, _bad_ adrenaline, and had to push his hands, suddenly cold and sweaty, deep into his pockets. It didn’t help when Dana appeared almost instantly in front of them, and gesticulated excitedly with a glass of white wine. ‘Dan! Casey! There are a lot of opportunities - it’s very important that everybody likes you!’ she said, and disappeared again.

‘That was enigmatic,’ Dan said.

Casey was leaning slightly into Dan’s side, a stiff, bright smile plastered across his face. ‘What did she say?’ 

‘She said it’s very important that everybody likes us.’

‘Why wouldn’t anyone like us?’ said Casey, and then, ‘God. I need some water.’

Why wouldn’t anyone like me? thought Dan, and heard his own heartbeat thumping in his ears. He started steering Casey towards a waiter who was carrying ice-water and champagne on a silver tray. 

*

By midnight, Casey was sober. Nobody else was. Given the amounts of free alcohol being consumed, he wasn’t sure how the event was supposed to raise money for charity, although Dan had whispered in his ear that the tickets had cost five hundred bucks each.

‘Did I pay for my own ticket?’ Casey asked incredulously.

‘I’m afraid so.’

Dan seemed okay. Sometimes he was great at these events, charming and funny, making great contacts, getting phone number. But sometimes – maybe only a handful of times since they’d been doing _Sports Night_ – Dan would disappear for long periods of time, and Casey would find him coming out of the bathrooms, looking pale and washed-out and shaking, plastering a fake smile over the top of it and not looking Casey in the eye. 

Tonight, Dan seemed okay. Not completely charming, but since Casey had arrived drunk and had quickly progressed to hungover, he couldn’t really criticise. There had been some speeches, an award of some kind, a lot of alcohol and not nearly enough food. Casey and Dan had stuck stubbornly together, and Dana had shot them exasperated looks all evening.

They didn’t even know Steve Sisco was there until late in the party, really late, when he pushed through the crowd towards Dan with a grim, intent look on his face.

‘Hey, Dan Rydell,’ he said, when he got to where they were standing. He didn’t look at Casey. He was sweating, and his voice was too loud. 

‘Uh,’ said Dan. ‘Hey Steve.’

Casey wanted to laugh, suddenly, but Dan had gone tense and perfectly still. Casey bit his lip and stopped himself. 

‘Congratulations on the buyout,’ Steve said.

‘Thanks,’ said Casey, even though Steve wasn’t talking to him, wasn’t even looking at him. He felt like stepping in front of Danny, blocking Steve’s view. 

‘Screwed up any marriages lately?’ Steve said, and then Casey knew Steve was drunk in a bad way and this wouldn’t go anywhere good.

A pause. ‘I’ve found people are usually capable of screwing up their own marriages,’ Dan said.

‘I certainly screwed up mine,’ Casey said, aiming for levity. A couple of people were looking in their direction.

‘That’s really funny,’ Steve said with a weird, blank grin. He wiped a hand across his forehead. He was a short guy, good looking and well-built, but right now he looked a little bit like he was having a slow heart attack. Everyone knew that Steve’s career had been tanking lately and he was radiating the same exhausted, dangerous energy of a boxer who had just lost a fight he was sure he would win. ‘You and me need to have a conversation, Danny,’ he was saying.

‘It’s Dan,’ said Dan. 

‘You and me need to have a conversation,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while now.’ His voice was hard and loud. People were definitely looking. 

‘Sure,’ said Dan. ‘Okay. Have your people call my people, we’ll work something out.’

Good, Danny, Casey thought. Don’t engage. Walk away. 

His own feet seemed stuck. He was fascinated by a broken capillary in Steve Sisco’s left eye. It looked like a tiny gunshot wound. 

‘I’d like to have a conversation right now,’ said Steve. ‘Maybe outside, huh? Where we can have some privacy?’

Casey glanced sideways at Dan, who looked like he was mentally running through about seven smart comebacks. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said in the end. He put a hand on Casey’s arm. ‘Casey, isn’t that that guy over there? That guy we need to talk to?’

Casey blinked. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, that looks like him.’

Steve turned to look, and Dan and Casey took that moment to back away quickly and start heading for the other end of the ballroom. Casey could feel Steve’s death-stare following them. 

‘That was nice,’ said Casey. ‘I didn’t know Steve Sisco had gone crazy. Nobody tells me anything.’

Dan took a glass of champagne from another passing waiter and looked darkly at its surface. ‘Don’t look at me,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen him in a year. I’m surprised he remembers my name, let alone I had a relationship with his wife. His ex-wife. Half a relationship.’

‘“You and me need to have a conversation?” Who the hell talks like that?’

‘Casey! Hi!’ A woman clasped a hand around Casey’s arm and turned him slightly to face her. ‘I have a hot tip for you, Casey. I have a hot tip out of Pittsburgh.’ 

‘I need some air,’ Dan said, ignoring the woman, whose name Casey was trying to remember. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He nodded at Casey and headed towards the doors. Casey watched him go, weaving through the room with his head ducked down. Casey figured he would wait five minutes before he went to find him. 

*

It wasn’t true. Dan had seen Steve two months earlier, the same week he had seen Rebecca again, the same week the station was sold. 

He’d been standing in the corridors at CSC – what used to be CSC, and was about to be QVS. Rebranded posters were being put up already. Casey and Dan had been made to get new publicity shots, and Steve was leaning, disconcertingly, against a giant poster of Dan. Dan had walked past him, and then literally done a double-take, and then felt like an idiot.

‘Steve,’ he’d said, and then wished, instantly, that he’d just carried on walking. What was wrong with him? 

‘Yeah.’ Steve with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t look like he had anywhere special to be. ‘Dan, right?’

Dan did not say _You know exactly who I am, jackass, and even if you didn’t, you’re standing in front of a five foot poster of me._

He said: ‘Yeah. Yeah. Hey. What are you – you’re in New York?’ 

In my building, he thought. On my _floor_. 

‘That’s right,’ Steve said. ‘I’m in talks. A soccer thing.’ 

Obviously. Steve and soccer could have each other, as far as he was concerned. He felt slightly sick. He really wished Steve would stand in front of a poster of someone else. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘That’s great, Steve. I was sorry to hear about – you know. Sorry to hear about the divorce.’

Steve laughed; he had a bland, TV laugh. ‘I don’t know what she’s been saying,’ he said. ‘It’s not as simple as that. You know how it is.’ 

Dan started to back away. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘Listen, I’ve got to – I’ve got a thing.’ Steve nodded. ‘I’ll see you around.’

‘Count on it,’ Steve had said, which hadn’t sounded like a threat until Dan thought about it much later. 

He didn’t tell Casey that he’d seen him. Didn’t tell Rebecca either. It had been a brief, disorientating moment, and afterwards Dan wondered if it had been a stress-induced hallucination. He suggested this to Abby. She had not seemed convinced.

*

It was fifteen minutes before Casey could get away from Maria Levinson, whose name Casey had remembered and who was an agent for someone Casey hadn’t remembered. Before he could start across the ballroom in search of Dan, he was intercepted by Dana. 

‘I’m looking for Danny,’ he said, before she could say anything.

‘Of course you are.’ She looked flushed and happy. She was good at parties like this. ‘Is it actually possible for you two to be separated for more than three minutes, or would something terrible happen? Would something terrible happen to the space-time continuum if the two of you began to talk to people other than yourselves?’

‘We don’t talk to ourselves,’ Casey said. ‘We talk to each other.’ 

‘ _Casey_ ,’ she said. ‘There are some big names here. Some great contacts. Can you try and spend at least five minutes meeting new people and trying to make them like you?’

‘I don’t have to try,’ Casey said. ‘Everyone likes me.’

‘I’m sure I can find some exceptions.’

‘They just haven’t got to know me yet.’ 

‘Please tell me that Danny is somewhere being charming to somebody.’

‘Of course he is,’ Casey said. ‘It’s Danny. Of course he is.’

Dana looked encouraged. ‘Really?’

‘Definitely.’ Casey scanned the room. He couldn’t see him. ‘He’s definitely doing that. Or.’

‘Or?’

‘There’s a chance he might be having a fistfight with Steve Sisco.’

‘I hope that’s a joke.’

‘I’m sure they took it outside.’ 

‘I hope that’s a joke.’

‘So do I.’

‘ _Casey_ ,’ Dana said, and Casey smiled.

‘Help me find him,’ he said. ‘Then we can all go forth and be charming together.’

*

They would find out later that Steve had done an extraordinarily large amount of cocaine before coming to the fundraiser and drinking two bottles of champagne. It was agreed this had affected his decision-making skills. 

He’d then walked into the kitchen, unchallenged by thirty members of the catering staff, and helped himself to a bread knife. They’d also find out that he hadn’t even paid for his ticket, so his charitable contribution to the evening amounted to the excessive consumption of free alcohol and attempted homicide.

‘I want them to make it really clear,’ Dan said the next morning, as Casey slammed the door of a cab against a small cluster of journalists and photographers outside the hospital, who were asking him how he felt and if it was true he’d slept with Steve Sisco’s wife. ‘That he tried to kill me at a _charity_ event.’

‘Does that make it worse?’ Casey said, hoping the cab driver would knock a few photographers down as they pulled away.

‘It certainly doesn’t make it better,’ Dan said. 

*

By coincidence, Dana and Casey found Dan at the same moment that Steve Sisco did. He was in the extravagant hallway that led through to the ballroom, leaning against the wall and sending a message on his phone. It turned out later it was a message to Casey. It said ‘where are you?’

‘Danny,’ Casey said, walking towards him. Dan looked up. ‘We’ve been looking for you.’

‘I hope you’ve been charming to important people,’ Dana said. 

Dan started to smile, and then Steve Sisco appeared from the right. ‘Hi, Dan,’ he said. They all looked at him. His face was an unnatural shade of red, and he was breathing heavily. He stopped a few feet away from Dan. 

Dan looked at him and said, with honest confusion, ‘Why have you got a knife?’ 

Somehow, Danny was the only person to notice the serrated knife with a six-inch blade until this moment. When Casey looked down and saw it, he thought the same question. Why did Steve Sisco have a knife?

‘I’m going to kill you,’ Steve said, by way of explanation, and Casey saw Dan blink, frown, and almost start to laugh, before Steve lunged inexpertly forwards with the blade raised.  
Casey’s vision went sharp and narrow; he saw Steve thrust the knife in the direction of Dan’s neck and miss, saw him try again, saw Dan’s right hand come up in defence. Somebody screamed – it might have been Dana. Casey wasn’t too sure about anything else, because he threw himself at Steve, the kind of football tackle he’d never been any good at. 

Casey caught Steve around the waist and knocked him over, and then it was all confusion. Three different men, a few seconds behind Casey, threw themselves into the fray, and Steve ended up pinned beneath them.

‘Where’s the knife?’ Everybody was yelling. Casey couldn’t hear his own voice. ‘Where’s the knife?’ A few feet away, a young woman with red hair bent down and picked something up, held it outstretched in front of her. ‘I’ve got it,’ she said. ‘It’s okay. I’ve got it.’

Things fragmented. Another crowd of men, who’d missed their opportunity to disarm anybody dangerous, swarmed around the woman and started barking out pointless instructions. ‘Don’t touch it! Point it down!’ Some guy, a quarterback for a team Casey couldn’t remember, had pulled Steve out by his shoulders and flipped him onto his stomach, was holding him down with one arm twisted behind his back. Steve appeared to have expended all his energy and had gone limp. Somebody pulled Casey to his feet. Someone was yelling about calling the police. A lot of semi-important names in sports media were gathered in a circle with their hands over their mouths. It had only taken a few seconds.

Danny was staring in slack-jawed fascination at the scene from a few metres away, and nobody was paying him any attention until Casey turned and saw that the entire right sleeve of his white shirt was torn and already completely soaked with blood. His right hand was cradled against his chest and blood was dripping from it like a bad horror movie. 

‘I’m fine,’ Dan said, to nobody in particular. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

Somehow, Dana reached him before Casey did. ‘Where are you hurt?’ she said, clawing at Danny’s shirt and trying to unbutton it, fumbling with his tie. ‘Sweetheart, where are you hurt?’ Casey had never heard Dana call anyone sweetheart before. He didn’t mean to push her aside, but a desperate, awful fear suddenly rose out of his gut, like maybe they were all standing around and Danny had been stabbed in the _heart_. 

‘I’m fine,’ Dan said again, as Casey started searching his body for whatever injury could produce that much blood.

‘It’s his hand,’ Dana was saying. ‘Casey, his hand.’

‘It’s not just his hand,’ Casey snapped. He started pulling Danny’s tie loose. ‘Look at his arm. Look at his goddamn arm.’ The shirt had been ripped at the sleeve and Casey could see, suddenly, a shoulder wound that was not just bleeding but was actually _pumping_ blood. For a second, he thought he was going to be sick. He looked at Danny’s face, which had gone slack and vacant. 

‘Sit down,’ Casey said. ‘For Christ’s sake, Danny. Sit down.’

Danny did sit down, then. Sat down hard, against the wall. His face was as white as anything Casey had ever seen, and he was blinking slowly, swallowing a couple of times like he was trying to take in air. Somehow some of the blood had gotten into his uncombed hair, and it clumped forward over his forehead. Casey dropped to his knees in front of him, took Dan’s hand, pressed the sleeve of his own shirt against it. ‘I need a bandage or something,’ he said. ‘Can someone _please_ call an ambulance?’

‘It’s coming,’ somebody said.

‘I don’t need an ambulance,’ said Dan, and then his face, if possible, went a shade whiter, his eyes drifted upwards, and he passed out. 

*

He came to in the back of an ambulance, flat on his back, with a nice EMT lady wrapping something around his shoulder without any great sense of urgency.

‘Welcome back,’ she said. ‘Do you feel dizzy?’

‘Where’s Casey?’ said Dan. Casey loomed into sight immediately, and he looked awful. Casey hated the sight of blood, Dan remembered. Couldn’t even handle the moderately serious sports injuries. 

‘Hey, I’m here,’ he said, and manoeuvred around the EMT to grab a part of Dan’s leg and squeeze.

‘It was Steve Sisco,’ Dan said. ‘He stabbed me.’

‘Thanks for cracking that case, Danny,’ he said. ‘It was a tough one.’

Dan reached out his uninjured hand without meaning to, tried to grab something, couldn’t reach anything. Casey squeezed his leg again, leaned across the EMT and quickly touched Dan’s face. ‘I’m right here,’ he said. 

‘Okay,’ Dan said. He tried to sit up, but the EMT pushed him back down. They were becoming a tangle of bodies over one narrow gurney. Dan could feel the road rumbling beneath them, but there were no sirens. He couldn’t be dying. 

‘My name’s Linda,’ the EMT said. ‘Can you tell me what day it is, Danny?’

‘Do I have a head injury?’ said Dan.

‘It’s Saturday,’ said Casey, and Linda shot him an irritated look. ‘Sorry.’ 

‘It’s Saturday,’ Dan repeated.

‘It’s actually Sunday morning,’ said Casey.

‘Casey says it’s actually Sunday morning.’

‘Thank you,’ said Linda. Dan closed his eyes again for a moment. The light overhead was hard and bright. 

‘Danny,’ said Linda, and shook him very gently. ‘Your blood pressure’s a little bit lower than I’d like. Can you try and keep your eyes open and talk to us for a little while?’ 

Dan opened his eyes halfway, and looked at Casey, who was clearly in Linda’s way but wasn’t moving. ‘Do I need stitches?’ Dan heard himself ask. Casey grinned weakly.

‘Yes,’ Linda said. ‘You’re going to need a hell of a lot of stitches.’

‘I think he had a knife,’ Dan said. ‘Casey. I think I had a knife.’

‘I know.’ Casey’s voice sounded weird. ‘It’s okay. They got it.’

‘Are you on any medication?’ Linda said.

Dan couldn’t think of the answer. 

‘No,’ Casey said. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I’ve been drinking,’ Dan said. 

‘Okay.’ Linda was bending his arm at the elbow. His shirt appeared to be missing the right sleeve.

‘There was a lot of blood,’ he heard Casey say.

‘You’d be amazed how much these types of wounds can bleed,’ Linda said conversationally. ‘It can look a lot worse than it is.’

‘It looked bad.’

‘Casey’s afraid of blood,’ Dan said. He could feel himself greying out again. 

‘Dan’s afraid of hamsters,’ Casey said.

‘That isn’t true.’ His own voice sounded distant. 

He heard Casey say, ‘Hey, Danny, open your eyes, okay?’, and then he was gone.

*

In the waiting room, Casey and Dana sat next to each other and for a while, they held hands. 

Both their phones had started to ring incessantly. The story had broken. Sports anchor stabs sports anchor. 

A photographer who had been at the fundraiser managed to make it into the waiting room and made a line straight for Casey, but a security guard intervened.

‘Just as well,’ Casey muttered, as the photographer was ushered back outside. ‘I’d have decked him.’

Dana laughed, weakly.

‘Thank you,’ Casey said.

‘It’s just a funny image,’ Dana said.

‘I tackled a knife-wielding crazy guy earlier this evening,’ Casey said, and Dana’s face went serious.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know you did.’

They went quiet for a few moments. ‘I don’t like doctors,’ Casey said.

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘What does that mean?’

She smiled at him. ‘You just don’t like being reliant on other people’s expertise,’ she said. ‘You don’t like problems that you can’t solve with your knowledge of arcane baseball statistics.’

Casey shifted in his seat, tried to find a more comfortable position. ‘There aren’t all that many problems that can be solved with arcane baseball statistics.’

‘I’m glad you’ve noticed,’ said Dana. ‘You think Steve Sisco’s going to jail?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Casey. ‘He tried to _kill_ him, Dana. To _kill_ him. Danny.’

‘He must be having a breakdown,’ Dana said.

‘I don’t care. I hope they throw away the key.’

Danny’s doctor emerged, looking excessively cheerful for someone in an emergency room at two in the morning. ‘There’s no muscle damage!’ she said brightly. ‘Didn’t get any arteries. You staunched the bleeding very quickly. Both relatively small wounds, once you clean them up.’ She smiled at Casey. ‘Lucky boy.’ 

‘He passed out a couple of times,’ Casey said. 

‘A bit of shock,’ she said. ‘Some blood loss. It happens. He’s awake now, alert and oriented. He’ll be fine. He’ll need to keep that arm relatively immobile for a while, stop those wounds reopening. Spend a few days lying down. He’s going to be a bit sore for a while. He’ll be fine.’ 

‘Are there going to be scars?’ Dana said.

‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘There certainly are.’ 

Casey let himself be led through to a curtained cubicle, while Dana went to inform the relevant people that Dan Rydell was not dead. 

Dan was sitting sideways on the bed, his legs swinging over the side, bare feet barely brushing the floor. He had no shirt on, and his arm was in a sling. Casey had seen Dan without a shirt hundreds of time, but all that pale skin and the lines of muscle suddenly looked newly vulnerable. There were stark shadows under Dan’s eyes, and he had the beaten, exhausted look he sometimes had when he came back from therapy. Still pale as death. He looked up when Casey came back through the curtain. ‘I have to wait here,’ he said. ‘They won’t let me go home yet.’

Casey looked at the white bandage wrapped around Dan’s right hand, poking out of the sling. 

‘I lost my shirt,’ Dan added. 

‘I’ll get you another one,’ Casey said. He sat down on the bed next to Dan. Their knees bumped together. ‘How do you feel?’

‘I feel sad that I lost my shirt,’ Dan said.

‘How does your arm feel?’

‘Fucked up,’ said Dan. His voice was too quiet. ‘This is my pitching arm.’

‘You might never pitch again,’ Casey agreed. ‘Maybe you can coach.’ 

‘I think I have to talk to the police.’ 

‘Yeah. They were around here earlier. I already gave a statement.’

‘Where’s Steve?’

‘I assume he’s in a cell somewhere,’ Casey said. ‘I don’t really care that much.’

‘Is this the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to us, or what?’

‘It happened to you more than me.’

‘He didn’t hurt anyone else, right?’ Dan said. His voice almost too quiet to hear. 

Casey shook his head. ‘No. Just you.’

‘That’s good.’

‘It’s not good,’ said Casey.

‘I just mean—’

‘I know what you mean.’ He squeezed the back of Dan’s neck, briefly, and pulled him into a quick one-armed hug. Dan didn’t resist. Outside the curtain there were hospital sounds, shoes squeaking on the floor, low conversations, a baby crying somewhere further away.

‘Is this going to make the news?’ Dan mumbled.

Casey let him go, and sighed. ‘You better believe it. There were journalists at the party. There’s some press hanging around outside this place. Someone got video footage of Steve being put in the back of a police car, don’t ask me how.’

‘I should call Rebecca and explain,’ Dan said.

‘Explain what?’

‘I don’t know. I think she might be disconcerted to wake up and see this on TV.’

‘That’s true.’

Dan smiled weakly. ‘She told me she kept waiting this past year for Steve to do something stupid that would finish off his career.’ 

‘Well,’ Casey said. ‘This evening he got drunk and tried to kill you with a bread knife in a room full of journalists.’ 

‘So, yeah,’ said Dan. ‘That ought to do it.’

‘Seriously, do you feel okay? Shouldn’t you be lying down or something?’

‘I feel okay,’ said Dan. ‘I want to go home. I hate hospitals.’

‘I know you do.’

‘They freak me out.’

‘I know they do.’

‘I lost my shirt. You have blood on your shirt. I don’t even have a shirt.’

‘Danny.’

‘I’m just saying, I don’t think I can go outside without a shirt if there are photographers.’

Casey put his hand on Danny’s knee. ‘I’ll go and find you a shirt from somewhere, okay?’ he said. ‘I’ll see what’s going on with the cops and find out when you can go home. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Dan. ‘Thank you.’

‘No problem.’ Casey got to his feet. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

*

Somebody disliked him enough to try and kill him, but somebody liked him enough to sit in a hospital with him and buy him clothes. Dan tried to make these things balance. 

Casey had bought him a black hooded sweatshirt from the hospital gift shop. Dan had cursed a lot trying to put it on, and a nurse had had to reconstruct his sling and give him a lecture afterwards, but he felt better. He’d given a statement to the police, one of whom seemed to think it was funny. They’d talked about the Mets, and Dan had given the other one an autograph for his wife. Dana came in and hugged him carefully. He spoke to Isaac on the phone. He wondered if he should call his parents, but they’d still be asleep, and it seemed possible that his dad would find some way to be pissed at him for getting attacked with a knife. 

It was getting light outside when the excitement started to die down, and a nurse went to get Dan’s release papers. Casey was holding a paper cup of coffee, which he put down carefully next to the bed, and got up to sit next to Dan again. The hospital corridor had fallen quiet. No new emergencies, and the drunks were all sleeping it off. 

If Dan closed his eyes, he knew he could fall asleep still sitting up.

‘So, Casey,’ Dan said. ‘I never said. Thanks. For the ill-conceived football tackle.’

‘Hey,’ said Casey. ‘I saved your life.’

‘I know. I’m being sincere.’

‘I hope they talk about how I saved your life on breakfast news.’

Dan twisted his mouth, bit his lower lip. Casey had bought mints in the gift shop, but he was desperate to clean his teeth, take a shower. ‘I hope they don’t talk about it at all,’ he said, and then, in a rush, ‘I feel like I screwed up, or something.’

Casey’s eyes were wide. ‘You didn’t,’ he said. ‘Danny, come on.’

‘I know. I just feel that way.’ He shook his head, tried to clear it. ‘I don’t know. I’m just tired, I guess. You must be tired.’

‘I just saw myself in the bathroom mirror,’ said Casey. ‘I look like hell.’

‘Do I look any better?’

‘Afraid not.’

Dan started to smile, but it collapsed almost instantly.

‘Shit, Casey,’ he said. He hoped Casey would ignore the break in his voice.

Casey leaned his forehead against Dan’s. Dan closed his eyes. ‘You know what we’ve learned from this?’ Casey said quietly.

Dan swallowed. ‘What?’

‘We need to avoid crazy people,’ Casey said.

‘Are you excluding us from the category of crazy people?’

‘We’re our own kind of crazy. We need to stick together.’

Dan squeezed his eyes shut tighter. ‘Sometimes I feel like I’m crazy on my own.’

‘You’re not on your own,’ Casey whispered. ‘Danny, you’re not.’ 

Dan’s eyes were still closed when Casey kissed him, a warm, rough kiss that Dan felt all the way through his body and into his bones.

‘What was that?’ Dan said, when Casey pulled away. Casey looked at him intently and then pulled him into another hug, so Dan’s face was pressed into the corner between Casey’s shoulder and his neck, his ruined pitching arm caught awkwardly between their bodies.

‘I was just demonstrating,’ Casey mumbled into Dan’s hair.

Demonstrating what? Dan thought. ‘It’s important that everybody likes us,’ he said. Casey’s skin was hot.

‘No, it isn’t,’ Casey said. ‘It’s not important at all.’ 

I love you, Dan thought, and I’m not crazy, I am crazy, I love you. He didn’t say anything. Casey kissed him again. It lasted longer this time, and Dan kissed him back, tried to say something with it. He didn’t know what. Casey tasted like champagne and mints and fear.

‘Sorry,’ Casey said, when their lips broke apart. He kept his forehead against Dan’s. 

‘It’s okay,’ said Dan. ‘It’s okay.’

‘This is probably something we need to have a very long conversation about.’

‘Okay,’ said Dan. ‘Can we schedule that for like four months from now?’

‘Yes,’ said Casey. ‘Please.’

‘Or maybe like a year from now.’

‘I’m just incredibly glad you didn’t get stabbed in the heart,’ Casey said.

‘Thank you. That’s a nice thing to say.’

‘I’m expressing my relief in an inappropriate way.’

‘Can we please not talk about it right now?’

Casey half-smiled, and pulled away. ‘Sorry,’ he said again.

Dan shifted, tried to flex his fingers a little bit and regretted it. Casey kissed me, he thought. He couldn’t think what he was supposed to think after that, so the thought looped in his mind a couple of times. He was hungry. He was exhausted. He thought about the windows in Casey’s apartment, and the view of the city. ‘I hope the doctor stitched me up right,’ he said. ‘I hope I don’t tear these apart.’

‘She seemed like she knew what she was doing,’ said Casey.

‘Yeah.’

‘Probably doesn’t know as much about baseball as we do.’

‘Probably not.’

Casey rubbed his hands over his face. Dan looked at his hands, noticed that he had dried blood under his fingernails. 

‘You want to come back to my place after this?’ Casey said. ‘Not, like. In a weird way.’

Dan almost started laughing, then, but he was too tired. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. Please. Any way you like.’

The nurse came back through the curtain. She had forms, and a pen. ‘Here you go,’ she said. ‘You’re nearly done.’ Dan accepted the forms with his good hand. The nurse studied him curiously. ‘Are all those people with cameras outside interested in you?’ she said.

‘No,’ said Dan. ‘Not really.’

*

As they headed for the exit, Dan thought, somebody tried to kill me. Somebody tried to kill me. Then somebody tried to save me. He tried to make these things balance.

The doors slid open and two hospital security guards tried to position themselves between Dan, Casey and the small cluster of tired-looking photographers. Dan put his head down and looked at the back of Casey’s shoes as they pushed forward to their waiting cab. People were calling Dan’s name, asking questions, and their camera bulbs flashed pale in the dim early morning light. Dan wondered what the headlines would be, wondered where Steve Sisco was right at that moment.

He should call his parents. They’d be waking up and seeing the news.

Somebody tried to kill me, Dad, he’d say.

Then somebody tried to save me.


End file.
